


Impact

by Miserys-Toll (MiserysToll)



Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6440770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiserysToll/pseuds/Miserys-Toll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Nikita left her family behind to clear her name, and they're all finally finding a sense of peace in the aftermath. But this war is bigger than just the rivalry between Amanda and Nikita. The Shop has eyes and ears everywhere, and nothing but ill intensions. It's time for the team to reunite, whether they want to or not. Alternate S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Impact**
> 
>  
> 
> **by. Misery's-Toll**
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  **A/N:** This is my alternate version of season 4 of Nikita. I made the outline of this story in the week following after season 3 ended, and have been working on it here and there for the better part of three years. I'll declare right now that any similarities between this fanfiction and the real season 4 are purely coincidental. This being said, I have about 11,000 words written at this point. Chapters will be semi-short, only so that I can update more frequently. Expect an update every other Thursday.
> 
> Pairings: Michael/Nikita, Alex/Sam, and Sonya/Birkhoff. Ryan's love interest is a secret for now.
> 
>  **Song Inspiration:** "Harper Lee" by Little Green Cars
> 
> * * *

Alex

_Queens, New York - 7: 45 pm_

Alex took the rear staircase up. She'd been waiting for the elevator a good four minutes, but it only groaned and rattled, never quite making it the full way down.

The clack of her heels echoed loudly off the concrete walls, expensive shoes out of place in a room decorated only with the swirls of spray-painted gang signs. It could almost be construed as abstract art, if she squinted a little. Such a thing was to be expected from dirt-cheap dives like this one.

The scribbled mural ended abruptly at the top of the stairs. The third-story hallway was only dimly lit, but Alex could see how that might serve as an advantage to anyone who didn't want to be recognized upon first glance. Door 322 easily blended in to the nondescript corridor, and she could have walked straight past it had she not been searching so intently.

She tapped the brass knocker against the wood three times and waited patiently for a response from within. While there was neither a guarantee that the occupant was home or would answer even if he was, Alex was feeling optimistic.

She caught a flicker of movement through the warped glass of the peephole, and then she heard the clatter of locks and deadbolts unfastening in rapid succession. The door swung open, and Michael's weary face appeared in the shadows of the unlit apartment.

"Hey," Alex greeted warmly, unable to temper the smile that pulled at her cheeks. She hadn't anticipated the surge of fondness that would come with seeing him for the first time in so long.

Michael pursed his lips, clearly not as enthused by being tracked down. "So, you found me."

"Don't sound so excited," she retorted, her grin slightly fading. "Are you gonna let me in or what?"

He gave a few moments to consider it, as though slamming the door in her face were an actual option. Finally, as if it caused him great pain, he pushed the door aside and walked back into the apartment, not stopping to see if she would follow. Alex bristled a little, but tried not to hold his unfriendly behavior against him.

Michael had never been anything close to sloppy when they were all shacking up together at Home Quarters, so it came as a surprise when she discovered toppled beer cans and old Chinese take-out containers littering the sparse furniture like a moldy buffet. Everything he owned looked like it may have been left by the previous owners, or stolen from someone's curb on garbage day. Nothing particularly seemed deserving of a pride of ownership.

When she caught up to him in the kitchenette, Michael was openly staring, waiting for her reaction to his new self. She tried not to look too disappointed, but she could tell she was failing by the way the corners of his lips fell.

He teetered awkwardly in the middle of the room, as if unsure of how to proceed.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he eventually asked, his voice even rougher than usual. He scratched at the back of his neck with obvious self-consciousness and gestured toward the fridge. "I think I've got some beer... But, ah—you don't drink, do you?"

Alex surveyed the empty cans lying around and said with a small amount of bitterness, "Whatever you have is fine," even though it was not him she was angry with.

Michael cleared his throat and rummaged through the refrigerator while Alex pulled herself up to perch upon a clear patch of counter space. She managed an oblique glance past his shoulder and nearly scoffed at the single six-pack and the lone bottle of yellow mustard inside.

He popped the tab on a beer and handed it to her, opening another for himself. She took a single sip for the sake of politeness, and then set it aside. It was true, she was paranoid of alcohol's addictive properties, and beer tasted like piss.

The obvious question hung thick in the air, waiting to be acknowledged and she waited for him to ask. It was only after several moments of uncomfortable silence that Alex considered maybe he refrained because it would be too difficult to hear the answer.

"No," she said quietly, though it seemed very loud in the silent room, "Nothing yet."

Michael nodded and knocked back a large swallow of the liquid comfort in his hands, visibly depressed by the news. He glared down at the can for a prolonged moment, thinking heavily on what this lack of progress meant.

"If it's not that, then you must need my help for something," he speculated with disdain, "So what is it?"

In the uneven light that streamed through the blinds, Michael looked like a disaster. His hair hung in greasy tendrils, his beard growing unkempt. If Alex had to guess, he probably hadn't showered in days and was substituting proper meals for beer.

Alex sighed, again disappointed by the impact of what had transpired a few months back. The frown seemed a permanent fixture on Michael's otherwise handsome face. It reminded her of when she'd first met him, when he was always so serious, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I don't have an ulterior motive, Michael," she said kindly, angling her face so he might look her in the eye. "I just wanted to see you again."

His snort following her words was one of self-deprecation, and he leaned back against the refrigerator in a somewhat more relaxed position. His eyes finally slid up to meet hers and he said with some abashment, "Well...it's good to see you again. You look good."

Alex brushed her hands over a crease in her couture skirt and offered a small smile, pleased that his hostility was waning. "Thanks," she said, and then added more hesitantly, "You look terrible."

He grimaced, taking another swig of his beer to wash away the insult. "Yeah, well. It hasn't been a great few months."

The nostalgia in the air was palpable, the memories culminating between them left unspoken. Standing across from one another in the cramped kitchenette, it almost felt like no time had passed at all. Too much and so little had happened since Nikita left, but it was enough to force Alex to explain.

"It screws up my insides just thinking about it," she said, her voice wavering, "Ryan and Sonya...even Birkhoff. They don't understand—she was just a friend to them. But I feel like there's a part of me that will never heal after what she did. I understand why she ran away, but I just feel so betrayed..."

Michael rubbed at his beard, replying unsurely, "And you thought I would understand."

Alex nodded. How could he not? That was why he was living in this self-imposed seclusion after all, wasn't it?

"I think about it every single day...what I could have done differently," he said slowly, fiddling with the can in his hands absentmindedly, "Then I realized there's nothing I _could_ change, because _I'm_ not the one who did anything. It wasn't my choice to make."

"What would you do if you saw her again?" Alex prompted, leaning in.

He almost smiled, trapped in a fantasy or an idea. "Honestly?" he asked. "I'm not sure if I'd kiss her or kill her."

Silence trickled in with the weight of his comment, their insides filling with cold black regret. Alex nodded, sagging against the tile backsplash and whispered, "Yeah. Me too."

Michael slammed the can on the counter, his face screwing up with frustration. "ShadowNet hasn't found anything! Not a single lead to go on, not a single trace of her!"

Alex hesitated, and slowly reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch, as if unused to physical comfort after spending so much time alone.

"Maybe that's a good thing, Michael," she offered with flimsy hope, "It means she's safe."

He chuckled spitefully. "Or maybe she's dead, and we'll never even know."

Alex pulled her hand away, busying herself by smoothing it across another imaginary crease in her dress as she blinked back tears. "I have to believe we'll find her alive. Otherwise what am I fighting for?"

* * *

It was nearing midnight when Alex checked the time on her phone. No longer was the sun bleeding through Michael's filmy windows, overlooking an unimpressive view of grey cement and a rotting wood fence. All Alex could see was her own bleary reflection. She was surprised by how quickly the time had passed once they started spilling their guts out.

"You can spend the night if you want," Michael offered, finally looking a bit more like himself, "It's late. I can take the couch."

Alex eyeballed the sunken sofa, resembling a compost heap more than a piece of furniture. "Is there a couch under there?" she asked with a laugh.

Michael gave her one of his trademark crooked smiles in response, and the familiarity of it was almost too painful for her to bear. She took a deep, discreet breath, trying to get her whirlwind of emotions under control, tilting her head so a curtain of hair would hide her belying expression.

"You'll visit again soon?" he asked, sounding artificially detached from the question, like he was trying too hard not to appear hopeful.

Alex plastered a grin on her face, careful to remain encouraging, and teased him, "I knew you missed me."

Michael rolled his eyes in good humor and replied, "It must have been your overwhelming humility that got to me."

They stood there silently in the wake of their banter, just looking at each other and smiling fondly. Alex remembered something Michael had said to her before, when they had been desperately searching for a cure to the nanobots in his bloodstream. _If this goes bad...make her understand that her family, the one she's built, is there for her._

She had made a promise to him that she would, yet the woman he'd been determined to protect had flown the coop. Alex decided to make it her new goal to be Michael's family. Maybe it was something she had learned from her runaway mentor, but Alex couldn't bear to let a man in need go unheard; not if there was something she could do to help.

They found themselves at his door, unfastening his ridiculous assortment of locks and bidding each other farewell.

"I will visit," she vowed, "I have a conference in D.C., but I should be back before the end of the month."

Michael laid a tentative hand on her arm, squeezing it in a familial way. Alex decided to one-up him and stood on her toes, pressing a chaste kiss to his scraggly mess of a beard.

When she pulled away, she laughed, "You should shave that."

"I know," he replied, blushing.

At that moment, his neighbor's door slammed open, an irate man storming out.

"You stupid bitch!" the man shouted, his towering figure made even more menacing by the shadows. "You wanted me gone? Well, guess what? I'm leaving!"

A petite woman appeared in the doorway, her pale face streaked with tears. She screamed back, oblivious to Alex and Michael looking on, "Fine! Get out of here, you asshole!"

The man waved her off dismissively and stalked down the corridor, disappearing down the column of stairs. The young woman lingered in the hallway, sniffling and rubbing at a blooming bruise on her cheek until Michael cleared his throat.

"Oh," the woman started, and tried hastily to wipe away her tears. "I'm sorry, David. Did we wake you?"

Michael shook his head, quick to reassure her. "No, I was just saying goodbye to my..." he floundered for a moment, gesturing at Alex beside him.

"Niece," Alex offered, shooting him an amused look. Then she outstretched her hand and, catching on to Michael's use of an alias, added, "I'm Samantha."

"Denise," the woman replied, and shook Alex's hand. "It's funny, I don't think David's ever had a visitor before."

Alex smiled and patted Michael on the shoulder. "Well, that's about to change," she said, smiling, "It was nice meeting you Denise, but I have to get home. I'll see you soon, David."

Michael nodded, looking slightly more rejuvenated, and quietly said goodnight.

Walking back to her car, Alex couldn't help but chuckle to herself. Seeing Michael clam up like that in the face of a pretty girl made her wonder if maybe he had a chance at normalcy after all. He always had been attracted to women he thought he could fix, and she knew he wouldn't allow anyone to lay another fist on his neighbor.

Still, even if it was healthier for them all to move forward, she couldn't help but hope that Michael and Nikita's love story wasn't over.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really hope you enjoyed this prologue. I know it was really dialogue heavy, and I have to admit that a lot of my writing is like that. However, because this is a Nikita fanfiction, there will be some espionage and fist-fighting.
> 
> Please send me a comment and let me know what you think! I worked hard on this story, so any compliments or criticisms are desired.
> 
> -MT


	2. Out to Drift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist on 8tracks for this story! You can find it at: http://8tracks.com/bottlewish/impact

_The Beach Safehouse - Two Years Ago_

Running against the wind was her favorite part. With her hair pinned tightly against her scalp, she could grin against the autumn sunlight unobstructed. Sweat of exertion dripped from her brow to the back of her neck, cooling in the breeze and sending shivers down her spine.

"Slowpoke!" Nikita shouted, laughing and smiling as Michael grit his teeth and struggled to keep pace. The whisper of their feet kicking up sand was rhythmic and comforting, like Michael's heartbeat at night or the metal ping of shell casings hitting the floor. Those were the things that kept her grounded.

"You know," he grumbled between gasps, "There was a time you couldn't dream to beat my speed!"

Nikita sunk her tennis shoes into the sand, grabbing Michael's hand so his momentum wouldn't carry him too far. "I learned from the best," she said in a teasing voice, lacing her sweaty fingers between his, "Look."

The bleeding sunset turned the clouds silver as it sank into the ocean, like something from a dream. "I can think of better things to look at," Michael replied, his hungry eyes never once leaving her face.

"Wow, _that_ wasn't cheesy," she laughed, goosing him hard on the rump before taking off again in record speed.

"Damn it, Nikita!" Michael growled through a smile, not hesitating in his pursuit to exact revenge. _Run, Nikita, Run._

* * *

_Present Day_

_New Orleans, Louisiana - 7:00 am_

Nikita awoke late to hear the shower running, the bathroom door left slightly ajar so her companion's hums and hot steam could filter into the bedroom. She remained still, with her eyes closed only a moment longer, relishing in the memory of another man.

Rene did not usually rise before Nikita, but the mornings when he did, she could pretend she was somewhere else, in a different time. The illusion was always quickly shattered as her mind began to fill in the off details. Rene smelled of a rich cologne that tainted his pillows and bed sheets, while her jilted fiancé had possessed a more subtle, musky scent that briefly combined with his hypo-allergenic shampoo when his hair was still wet from the bath. That lingering memory kept her from closing her eyes and sinking back into the mattress on this particular morning.

The shower shut off, yet Rene continued to hum genially as he dried off. Nikita sometimes wished she were ignorant to the atrocities her lover was responsible for, so she could be swept away by the romanticism of it all. Rene was completely loaded and had a pleasant enough personality, although he had a tendency to be short with her when he'd had a bad day, and almost always drank too much at dinner. The latter had made snooping an easy task, since he chattered freely while under the influence, and always slept hard after fucking her, allowing Nikita to creep through his house at her leisure.

Still, every time he touched her she felt something inside her crumble at bit further. When she was still at the stage of laying the bait, she had worried it was her resolve she was damaging as she whispered words of seduction and praise in his ear, stroking a hand up his thigh. But after that first night when she'd lain with him inside her, she realized her resolve was just as strong as it had always been. What was slowly cracking into bits was her sense of identity, the knowledge of who _Nikita_ really was.

The bathroom door creaked open and Rene stepped out with a towel wrapped low around his hips, rivulets of water still glistening on his collarbone. Nikita considered faking sleep until he left for work, but then their eyes met.

The assignment had started as a simple robbery, commissioned by a mercenary-for-hire group that had heard rumors of Dr. Rene Boucher's exorbitant funds, gathered predominantly from underground, black market activity. After a bit of digging however, Nikita had discovered that the medical facility the man in question headed was one of many fronts for The Shop, and she had changed the mission parameters on her own accord. Thus Josephine was reborn, with a different name and a clean record.

"Good morning, Julia. Did you sleep well, my dear?" he asked kindly, leaning over the bed to give her a quick kiss.

She smiled shyly and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I did," she replied with a sleepy giggle, and continued, "You look very handsome this morning...Come back to bed?"

He grinned wolfishly, but proceeded toward the wardrobe for his suit, clearly set on getting to work on time. He'd mentioned the previous night during a round of pillow talk that he was meeting with an important client today, the preparation for which had him spending longer hours at work and cost a significant amount of stress.

"While flattery will get you everywhere," he began jokingly, "I have to get to work quite early this morning, so I cannot. To make it up to you, I'll have my driver give you a ride to wherever you need to go."

She pouted and slid out of bed, pulling on the previous night's dress. "You're such a tease, Dr. Boucher."

Although she knew he was fond of her, Rene was not a faithful man. Whatever The Shop was paying him to head up one of their facilities had inflated his ego quite nicely, and he allowed himself the company of at least one other mistress on the regular, that she was aware of.

She had already cloned his phone, so any text messages he tried sending privately to the other woman would be automatically forwarded to Nikita's cell.

And surely enough, as she glanced at her phone she realized she'd received an invite he intended for his dear Amelia, dinner plans for later that night. Nikita's plan was to crash their little lovefest, demand an explanation for his betrayal, and then storm out with the plea that he never speak to her again.

It wasn't the most dignified of extractions, but it was the simplest way Nikita could think of to remove herself without drawing suspicion or painting a rejected man's target on her back.

At this point, all Nikita wanted was for this facade to end.

* * *

_New York City, New York - 6:00 pm_

The weather wasn't too hot today, which made his job considerably more tolerable. Michael was just getting into that quiet place in his mind where focus came easily, where the task at hand could fill his senses and he didn't have to think about his life or what was missing. Then Jorge sounded the bell and any semblance of peace was shattered.

One of his fellow workers shuffled up behind him and Michael reluctantly set aside his hammer, not wanting to appear too keen on assembling plywood supports.

"Dave, we're going down to the pub for a bite to eat. Wanna join us?" Enrique asked, pulling off his hard hat to run his fingers through sweaty black hair.

Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably. It had been awhile since anyone tried approaching him, but Enrique was still new and seemed unfazed by his unsociable persona. "Nah, I'll pass this time."

The guy shrugged and headed off down the lift with his fellow coworkers, leaving Michael behind to try and grasp fruitlessly at the peace of mind he'd just barely been able to find. The air felt thicker than usual, choked up and sour with smog and a hint of something else. It was just a feeling that sat uncomfortably inside him when he worked these intercity jobs.

He retrieved his metal lunch pail and scrounged up the meager lunch he'd packed with the last of the groceries Alex brought him. She may have been an important diplomat now, but she still took the time to check in on her old handler with some regularity. She never mentioned their previous colleagues, though he knew she must keep some form of contact between them.

He wanted to keep his life as spy-free as he could, still trying to pick up the pieces of whatever identity he'd had at the start, long ago. Before Elizabeth and Haylie died. _Before Nikita._ Maybe if he could pretend the last ten years never happened, he could go a little while longer without putting the barrel of his glock in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

Life as a construction worker wasn't all bad and it paid well enough, even if it was almost dangerously boring at times. They were currently building the framework of a new office building downtown, which could almost be considered a treat compared to the usual. Most of the jobs he got meant repaving a broken street in the middle of nowhere, with the sun beating mercilessly on his back. At least the rush hour traffic provided an interesting landscape below while he enjoyed his lunch break, fifty feet in the air.

Michael took a bite of his ham and cheese sandwich, chewing it mechanically before downing it with a swallow of Miller Lite. He made a face at the taste and decided maybe the cold cut was past its due date, tossing the remainder of his lunch into the nearest waste bin.

Maybe it was just this bitter air, filling his mouth with the taste of regret and resentment. Who knew? Maybe tonight he'd go home and put himself out of his misery.

The phone in his pocket vibrated, and Michael pulled it out to find a message from Alex.

"Don't forget to buy groceries this week! I'll be over this weekend and there'd better be food in the fridge! ;-)"

Michael sighed. His misery would have to wait.

* * *

_Washington D.C., Maryland - 6:30 pm_

Alex pocketed her cell phone, and leaned against the balcony railing to watch the storm roll in.

Thick black clouds loomed on the horizon, a curtain of distant rain pouring down over the city's blinking lights. The air blew through in thick, uneven wisps, drawing forth the aroma of clipped grass and damp asphalt.

From her perch above the city, she could see everything. Miriam Hasan was hosting another event in D.C., and while Alex had recently struck out on her own, the conviction with which her sponsor spoke was always revitalizing. Tonight's speech did not disappoint.

Alex found herself playing the role of Alexandra Udinov so frequently, she almost felt like the great Russian heiress she was meant to be. Her position as an envoy of the United Nations allowed her to travel the world freely, donating her time and money to girls in need. She was a symbol, a reminder that a life bred in human trafficking wasn't the end.

And maybe it was naive of her, but Alex wanted to save the world. She wanted to inspire young, broken girls the way Nikita had inspired her. Sometimes she wondered if her old mentor was out there somewhere, watching Alex as she made headlining news. If she was proud.

Lightning flashed, and the roar of thunder that followed was deafening. The storm had finally arrived, a torrent of rain beating upon the roof in loud, fat drops that drowned out the noise of traffic below.

Alex took a deep breath and checked her watch. It was time to head back inside.

She plastered a smile on her face, the peaceful crooning of live musicians washing over her as she entered the hotel ballroom. Hasan was in deep conversation with a couple of Iranian diplomats, so Alex took a seat at the bar as she waited for an opportunity to interrupt.

The ballroom was flooded with low-level political figures, news officials, and university students with lime green badges hanging from their necks. She could pick out quite a few familiar faces in the crowd, and she waved in passing to a young woman she'd met at the Polaris Project fundraiser last month.

It was strange, though. She could feel the weighted gaze of someone observing her, and she'd noticed it the moment she landed in D.C. What unnerved her is that she had no idea if the culprit was friend or foe.

Sometimes she longed to have a mic in her ear, Ops backing her up. Inside of Alexandra, there would always be Alex, wary of another mission.

She turned around to request a club soda from the bartender behind her, but she was met with an unexpected and startling sight.

"What can I get for you, Ms. Udinov?" the barman asked.

Alex gasped as she took in the sight of her ex-boyfriend. A couple of years had passed since he ran from her apartment and left her life completely, but everything about him was the same.

Her voice cracked as she struggled to form words. "N-Nathan? What are you doing here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh good lord, I'm so sorry I'm only just now updating this.
> 
> I hope you all won't hate me too much for where I'm going with these characters. In this story I am hoping to address a lot of the things that I felt weren't adequately addressed in season 4 (due to time constraints). Some of these things will include Nikita's fear of the evil within, her self-hatred, insecurity when it comes to her identity, and how much of herself she's willing to sacrifice in the name of justice.
> 
> Alex, Michael, Sam, Birkhoff, and Sonya will all receive their own character arcs as well. As for Ryan, his role isn't entirely determined yet, just because the end of the story is a little fuzzy. HE WILL NOT DIE THOUGH.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you will comment and tell me what you think about this chapter, negative or positive! Thanks for reading! And thank you Beth_Penrose for reminding me of this story's existence.
> 
> I promise that the next chapter won't take this long! In fact it'll be up within the next seven days.
> 
> -MT


	3. Bricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone that's confused, I'm a few more chapters behind on AO3 than on FF.net! So if you're reading on that website, you're at this point 4 chapters ahead of this one. :^)

_Washington D.C., Maryland - 6:30 pm_

Alex stared, wide-eyed at Nathan, her mind racing wildly through memories she thought she'd put behind her. Her voice cracked as she struggled to form words. "N-Nathan? What are you doing here?"

Nathan smiled, but it wasn't the same carefree expression he'd carried when they were together. She could picture the blood oozing from his forehead, the terrified look in his eyes when he gunned down Jaden in the middle of her living room.

His innocence was gone, and Alex had been the one to take it from him.

"I saw you on TV awhile back," he said with a shrug, "The famous Alexandra Udinov, back from the grave. I thought that it was some kind of joke at first, but then I worried that you'd gotten yourself into some kind of trouble. I didn't know how to explain to my wife why all of a sudden I was so desperate to get a gig in D.C."

"You're married?" Alex asked, and finally noticed the gleaming wedding ring on his left hand. She could feel herself breaking into a cold sweat. "You didn't-"

"Tell her about you?" he asked, leaning on the counter with his elbows, "No _Alex_ , I know how you were fond of your secrets. But after what went down with...with your coworker, I always wondered if you were okay—if you were even still alive. Then suddenly you're the most famous girl in America? I had to see you."

"I'm so sorry, Nathan," Alex said, her lip trembling, "I wanted to tell you, but..."

"Then you'd have to kill me, I get it," he said with a bitter smile, "But why don't you tell the truth now? Why don't you tell the press about the black ops group? Are they still threatening you? Did they make you come up with that story about human trafficking and the drug addiction?"

"Nathan, I-" she began, but found herself trailing off as she noticed another familiar face weaving its way through the crowd. Her heart jumped to her throat and she was abruptly speechless, the situation growing more surreal by the second.

Nathan straightened up, all business when he realized they had approaching company. "What can I get you?" he asked, when the man was standing directly before them.

Alex felt a possessive hand curl around her bicep, warm and firm, and it sent shivers up her spine. She was uncertain if she was in any danger or not, her heart torn between rejoice and alarm.

Whether it was Owen Elliot or Sam Matthews hovering protectively over her, she couldn't be sure. All she knew was that it was best she move as far away from Nathan as possible.

"I just came to get my girlfriend. You all done here, sweetheart?" he asked, unwaveringly confident beneath Nathan's weighted stare.

Alex plastered on another fake smile, and rose from her seat at the bar. Nathan seemed to want to stop her, and she imagined that through his eyes, Owen gave off the same intimidating air as Michael did when he'd interrupted their dinner so long ago.

She reached out and touched Nathan's hand reassuringly, her fingers gliding over his wedding band. "Nathan, forget everything I told you when we were together, okay? Everything that happened was just a result of me being a...a delusional junkie. And I'm so sorry I dragged you into all of my shit, but I'm okay now, I promise."

He glanced back and forth between herself and Owen, and she was reminded of how _good_ Nathan was. He deserved a normal life, far away from her and all of her convoluted problems.

"Move on. Go be happy with your wife," she said, squeezing his hand once before pulling away.

At least some man she'd loved would live.

* * *

_Queens, New York - 6: 45 pm_

As Michael fumbled between grocery bags and the key to his front door, his neighbor across opened hers.

"Hey," Denise greeted with a shy smile, "That's a lot of beer for one person. Expecting company tonight?"

Michael bit back a sigh and peeked over his shoulder, trying to wipe the scowl from his face.

Denise was a sweet girl. Pretty too, with electric blue eyes and shiny blonde hair. She reminded him of a hybrid between Elizabeth and Cassandra in that way, almost like she'd been tailor-made for him. On his worst days he'd even considered taking advantage of the young woman's obvious crush, but something always got in the way. He wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing.

"I heard the end of the world was coming and I wanted to be prepared," he joked unevenly.

Denise giggled, and Michael found himself smiling in response.

Lord knew what she saw in him. He was a complete and utter disaster who drank too much and forgot to shower most of the time, and had been that way even before he moved to this shit hole. Maybe Denise had a thing for losers.

If he remembered correctly, she'd been seeing some asshole with anger management issues a few months back. Michael remembered the crunch of cartilage beneath his fist as he'd broken the guy's nose. That was the last time Denise ever showed up with a shiner on her eye.

"I guess I'd better stock up then, huh?" she replied sweetly, stepping out further into the hallway. "Need any help with those?"

Michael looked down at his bags of alcohol and Alex-approved foodstuffs, finding himself ashamed of his poor living habits not for the first time. As if to prove a point, he finally forced the key into the lock and nudged the door open with a loud creak. "No thanks. I'm not really prepared for guests."

Denise sucked on her bottom lip for a minute, looking like she might give up and head back inside when she added, "I am. My sister was going to come over for dinner, but she had to cancel when her son got sick...so I've got far more jambalaya than I could ever eat."

"Is that an invitation?" Michael asked, half hoping she'd say no.

She shrugged, an expectant smile blooming on her lips. "Only if you say yes this time," she replied, "A girl can only take so much rejection."

He wasn't naive—he knew what Denise was really asking for. He'd been dancing around her flirts and propositions for the better part of a year, and he finally wondered if maybe he should just take the plunge.

It had been 13 months since Nikita left, and he had to face it. She wasn't coming back, and there were no such things as happy endings. Not for them.

"Alright," he said, his voice gravelly with nerves, "Let me put these away first and I'll be over."

Denise looked like she could burst with happiness, which only made him feel more sick to his stomach.

"Okay. I'll see you in a few," she replied, and slipped back into her apartment.

* * *

_Washington D.C., Maryland - 6:45 pm_

Owen—or Sam—led Alex toward a vacant service corridor and away from prying eyes, and she let him, despite her growing uncertainty.

She could feel the warmth of his guiding hand through the material of her dress, and its pressure against her flank was gentle and familiar. The sight of him made her heart ache with nostalgia. Alex could remember with painful clarity when he'd been a daily fixture in her life, a confidant she had relied on when times were tough.

But he'd disappeared when she needed him the most. After Sean died and Nikita fled, Michael grew distant and faded away. Then their team, once an indestructible force of nature, crumbled before her eyes. Alex couldn't help but feel like it had been her own desperate, clinging grip that broke them.

She'd sought Owen out in those early days, but the newly reborn ShadowNet merely wasn't up to the task. So Alex did what she always did. She pulled herself up by her bootstraps and found a way to keep going.

She rationalized the loss of Owen's friendship the same way she had Nikita's: everyone she cared about died, and it was best they stayed as far away as possible. Somehow, this train of thought didn't ease the sting of betrayal.

"Here's far enough," she said icily, and removed herself from his grasp. The area was secluded and undecorated, and she'd have little cover in case of an ambush.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?" her companion asked, as if he was actually perturbed by the idea.

"Afraid? No. But I'm a little suspicious," she replied, crossing her arms defensively. "What are you doing here? The press is all over this event. Shouldn't you be keeping a low profile?"

He shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "When Ryan gave the President a list of Division operatives, I was in an off-book Turkish prison. I may not have an identity, but officially, I'm not a fugitive of the United States government either."

Alex narrowed her eyes, and said with a little more vitriol, "That only answers part of my question."

"I came to see you, Alex! Is that a crime?" he asked, sounding almost convincingly offended. He frowned and looked away, adding hesitantly, "Look, I'm sorry about what happened the last time we saw each other...I wasn't myself."

He looked well, as though he'd put his mercenary skills to good use over the past year; his pink-ridged knuckles were in the process of healing after a particularly nasty punch. Where Michael faded into the background like a ghost, the man in front of her appeared as strong and fit as ever.

"You expect me to believe you're Owen now?" she asked skeptically, but with less sharpness to her tone.

Alex wondered daily if it was Amanda's programming that created this philanthropic side of her, that morally prevented her from retreating to Greece to live with her mother. For Owen to suddenly return to normal was an impossibility, no matter how much she longed for it to be true.

"Not...exactly," he said, rubbing his neck uncertainly, "I'm still Sam, but all those memories from when I was Owen are screwing with my head. It's hard to differentiate between the two anymore. I get these headaches, and sometimes..."

Alex released a sigh, and turned away to get her spinning thoughts together.

Owen struggled with loss and addiction the same way she had, and they'd both desperately tried to escape the darkness that was predestined for them. Alex found a compromise within herself, a balance between well-intentioned Alex and ruthless Alexandra.

She hoped she could help Sam do the same, but part of her wasn't sure she could survive another failure.

"We have a safe house in Rhode Island," she began reluctantly, "I'm staying there this weekend. Why don't you come back with me, and we'll give you a full body check-up? Just to see if everything's physically alright with you."

Sam's lips turned up at the corner and he snarked, "Full body, huh Alex?"

She rolled her eyes, but found herself unable to repress a smile.

* * *

_Queens, New York - 7: 00 pm_

Michael barely touched his food, but he found himself frequently chugging from his glass of wine to wash down what little he swallowed. It wasn't that Denise was a poor chef, but his mouth had gone embarrassingly dry.

"Does the food taste okay?" she asked, apparently noticing how little he'd eaten.

He wanted to laugh at himself for how ridiculous he was being, yet the nervous energy wouldn't dissipate. He could feel the guilt of what he hadn't even done yet festering inside him, like he was somehow betraying the unresolved feelings he still had for Nikita.

Alex was always trying to convince him to move on, to accept his new life and adapt. And maybe she was right.

"David?" Denise pressed.

It was impulsive, but Michael pushed away from the table and pulled Denise from her seat, cupping her cheek in his hand. He tried to appreciate her for the woman she was—beautiful, sweet, and so incredibly kind.

Then, he closed his eyes and kissed her.

Her lips were willing and pliable beneath his, and her fingers wove through his unkempt hair to graze his scalp enticingly. She let out an encouraging moan when he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, so he added just a little bit of tongue.

He wanted more—his whole being ached for comfort, but he took it slowly. He felt like he was playing a role, like when he'd been Jonathan for Cassandra. But that was the problem, wasn't it?

"Stop thinking so much," Denise urged, sliding her warm hands beneath his shirt to palm the muscles of his abdomen, "And don't hold back."

Michael could feel the arousal stirring within him, which was inevitable but unsettling nonetheless. He shut his eyes even tighter, blocking Nikita's image out of his head while Denise threw off his shirt. Their mannerisms weren't even similar—Nikita always wrapped her legs around his waist, even when it made balancing more precarious.

"Stop, stop," he breathed huskily, pulling back. Everything about this was wrong, and he knew it. He couldn't do this with Denise while thinking of Nikita. Both women deserved far better than that.

Denise sighed and pulled back, her eyes lingering for a second on his shirtless torso before she met his gaze. "Someone broke your heart, right?" she asked, her voice laced with disappointment.

"I'm sorry," was all he could say in response.

He felt awkward collecting his T-shirt from the countertop, but it was all he could do to fill the silence that followed. He needed to get back to his apartment; he needed to think.

"Look, I get it," she said soothingly, "I was with Eric for 2 years, and he hurt me too. I know what it's like to struggle with your past."

Michael shook his head. No, she didn't get it. And maybe no one but Alex ever would.

"Thanks for dinner," he said, and walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment below to let me know what you think if you have the time.


	4. Fissures

  _Gettysburg, Pennsylvania - 8:40 pm_

Sam couldn't help but feel a little self-satisfied, riding shotgun in Alex's car. Persuading her to take him back to HQ had been a combination of talented sweet talking and flat out luck. Her confrontation with the bartender had already made her vulnerable, and he'd been able to play the knight in shining armor easily.

What he hadn't accounted for was the 6 hour car ride from D.C. to Rhode Island, and the ample time it would give Alex to go all Spanish Inquisition on him. He couldn't allow her to decipher his real intentions, and let his employer's plans go to shit. So he laid on the charm and spilled his rehearsed cover story.

They stopped to refill the gas tank and grab a bite to eat, and Sam was surprised to discover that he was actually enjoying spinning his tall tale. Alex tried repeatedly to back him into a corner, second guessing all the details and comparing it with what she already knew about international organized crime. Duping her would have been much easier if she weren't so current, but he found the challenge exhilarating.

"Really, the KGB? I'm surprised you made it out alive," Alex said, dipping a French fry in ketchup and smearing it across the plate, "Especially without back-up."

Sam cocked a crooked smile and forged ahead, "I'm amazed, myself. I had two bullets lodged in my leg and a fractured rib—I wasn't going anywhere fast. I hid in a walk-in freezer and tried not to bleed or freeze to death while I waited them out. Finally something bigger came along and distracted the patrols, so I was able to escape."

Alex wiped her hands on a napkin, and gestured toward his legs. "Must've left some pretty obvious scarring. Can I see?" she asked.

She'd thrown on a honey-blonde wig and a pair of glasses so no one would recognize her, but her proud smile as she thought she'd finally nailed him was distinctly her own; Sam saw it every time the news covered her latest human trafficking breakthrough. The disguise wouldn't have fooled him for a second if he saw her on the street.

"You don't believe me?" he asked, averting his eyes as though in disappointment.

Lucky for him, the story was at least partially true. He'd fudged on some of the details, of course; instead of the KGB, it had been a ring of Cuban drug dealers, and he failed to mention that the _something bigger_ was actually his employer shooting a bazooka into the stash of heroin. But the bullet wounds were real.

"Hey, battle scars are sexy! But if you don't want to show them to me..." Alex trailed off, and Sam honestly wondered what she'd do if he refused.

Her words rang with familiarity, and he could recall sitting in Medical as she said something similar. The memories were heavily tinted with Owen's friendly affection, so Sam quickly tried to think about something else.

"I get the picture," he said and lifted the hem of his pant leg slowly, teasing her.

The expression on her face as he revealed two round scars, still stained with yellowing bruises, almost made him laugh. Still unconvinced, she reached over and rubbed her fingers over the puckered skin, as if she expected it to be made of latex.

It was hilarious how seriously she was taking this. With each accusation he deflected, another crack appeared in the wall between them.

Soon she'd be putty in his hands, so thankful to have her good friend Owen back.

"Touching costs extra," he said when her fingers rubbed a particularly sensitive spot, and rolled his pant leg back down.

"I'll leave the money on the nightstand," she replied dryly, and leaned back against the vinyl-covered booth.

Then, for the first time since they'd left the conference, no words were exchanged. She stared at him with that same heavy, jaded expression she always did, yet whatever humor he'd felt at her expense began to drain away. Alex wasn't questioning him out of stubbornness. She just didn't want anyone else to die.

"Don't worry so much," he said suddenly, "It's six against one. I'd be an idiot to try something."

Alex wadded her burger wrapper into a ball and shoved it into the empty fry box, breaking off the eye-contact they shared. She cleared her throat and said somewhat thickly, "You're not Owen and you never will be. If you try something and another person I love gets hurt, that will be on _me_."

"Alex-"

"No," she cut him off, and when she glared up at him, her tired blue eyes were unforgiving. "If you pull _anything_ , I will end you. And then we will both go to hell where we belong."

* * *

_New Orleans, Louisiana - 9:00 pm_

It was still raining later that evening, when Nikita pulled outside of Rene's gargantuan home. The picture windows were dark, which struck her as odd—she was quite early after all, and she expected the house to be lit up as Rene's hired help put the finishing touches on what was certain to be a magical evening.

He had always sent his workers home only shortly after Nikita's arrival, to give the two a sense of unrestricted privacy. While a sense of unease flooded her, she stayed put in her hiding spot among the trees.

She wasn't waiting long before a pearlescent Lincoln town car pulled into the driveway, braking in the shadows of a towering Italian cypress. An early bird, or an eager one in any case. A blue umbrella was the first to emerge from the car, followed by the beautiful Amelia Brooks, clad in a matching cobalt overcoat. She carefully tiptoed over wayward puddles in her shiny stilettos and rang the doorbell once before letting herself in.

Nikita set aside her scope and checked her make-up in the rearview mirror, feeling strangely nervous for such a low-risk op. She applied a second layer of lipstick after a moment's contemplation and touched up the elegant chignon she'd tied at the base of her neck.

Her plan was to wait another fifteen minutes while things got steamy between Rene and his mistress before heading inside, but she found herself unable to stop fidgeting. She worried that her outfit was out of character; Julia was a yoga instructor from a small town, finding awe in every facet of Rene's home. Exploring off-limits areas in a giant mansion was much more forgivable when you had a girlish charm and insatiable curiosity.

She pulled the bobby pins from her bun and wiped off the lipstick.

As soon as the clock struck 9:20 she was out the door, umbrella poised overhead. Unlike Amelia, she forwent the doorbell entirely, and crept into the house with a wary step.

The darkness of the house suddenly made sense as Nikita discovered the candlelit path in the entryway, a quiet record playing in the other room. A carpet of trodden-on rose petals wound through the halls, the tiny flickering flames casting shapes across the walls. A pang of some unwelcome emotion struck Nikita's heart as she took in the romantic gesture meant for another woman.

She found the couple seated beneath the awning of Rene's back porch, wrapped in a knit blanket and sharing a bottle of Merlot. Their embrace was unmistakably amorous, fingers entwined and pecks on the lips stolen as they murmured quietly to each other.

Nikita lingered, listening to their soft chuckles and whispers while unable to catch what was said. An unbidden pang of longing twisted inside her as they engaged in a particularly passionate kiss.

"Why don't you grab us another bottle of wine, and we'll take this to the bedroom?" Amelia asked in a low, sultry voice, her hands trailing down his chest to enjoy the ridges of his muscles beneath his button-down.

"It would be my pleasure," he said, and planted a kiss on her forehead. Nikita ducked further into the shadows as he wandered past her, not willing to reveal herself until the couple got hot and heavy. It would lead to a much more dramatic exit.

Instead of watching Rene browse through his wine collection, she trained her eyes on his mistress, intrigued by this woman who also shared her lover's bed. The lovely woman stood, her back to Rene as she pulled something from her purse.

Nikita watched, eyes wide with horror as Amelia Brooks screwed a silencer onto a 9mm handgun and tucked it away beneath her folded coat, draped inconspicuously over her arm.

"How about a nice Chateau Petrus, _cherie?_ " Rene called over his shoulder, plucking a bottle from the shelf.

"Sounds great, honey," Amelia replied, and fired two silenced shots into his chest.

The startled sob that bubbled from Nikita's chest was hidden by the loud shattering of the champagne bottle as it hit the floor, and she hurried to clap a hand over her mouth to keep any further sounds from escaping.

" _Ferme ta gueule_ , you lying bastard," Amelia snapped,firing her weapon once more. Then Rene's choking gasps ceased entirely.

Nikita was frozen with shock, her back pressed tightly against the wall while Amelia's stilettos tapped quietly across the floor. She could hear the woman rifling through Rene's pockets.

"You can come out now," Amelia said casually, standing tall when she found what she was looking for, "I know you're curious, Nikita."

Nikita's hand brushed over the knife stashed in the garter at her thigh. She hadn't thought to bring a firearm. It wasn't supposed to be that kind of mission.

She rounded the corner with her hands raised in the air, a surrender as far as Amelia would know.

"I was right after all. Nikita Mears," she said, eyeing Nikita's getup with skepticism, "My boss didn't believe me when I told her my suspicions. She said you held a distinct contempt for seduction missions. Guess even Freud wasn't infallible."

"Your boss?" Nikita probed.

"I'm sure if she were here, Amanda would prefer to kill you herself. But as it is, I need a scapegoat. Does 'vengeful lover kills her cheating boyfriend in a crime of passion' sound good to you?" Amelia replied, aiming the gun pointedly toward Nikita's chest.

"Let's put it to the test," Nikita said, reaching for her knife and throwing it as hard as she could, just as a bullet exploded from the muzzle of the woman's gun.

An intense, hot pain bloomed in Nikita's shoulder and knocked the wind from her lungs. She hit the ground hard halfway toward her destination, and she clawed her way behind the cover of the sofa. Amelia let out an enraged scream and fired three more shots, but the bullets caught in the leather of the couch. Nikita huddled on the floor as she applied pressure to the wound in her clavicle.

She was certain she saw the blade of her knife implant itself in Amelia's thigh. Not fatal, but painful enough to slow the woman down. Nikita needed her alive.

"I don't think your cover story is going to pan out," Nikita hollered, gritting her teeth as blood seeped through her fingers, "Too many bullets, too much blood."

"The specifics are unimportant. This country will cheer when they see the walls smeared with your blood. Maybe I'll get a medal," Amelia said, and lunged over the sofa with Nikita's knife clenched in her fist.

Nikita kicked her attacker in the leg, and Amelia fell heavily on top of her when she lost her balance.

"How does it feel to be the most hated woman in America?" her opponent taunted.

Nikita barely dodged the blade of the knife as it sailed toward her eye socket, and the tip embedded in the polished wood floor. Amelia's hands went for her throat, but Nikita head butted her hard enough to feel the crunch of the woman's nose as it was crushed.

In the blinding haze of Amelia's pain, Nikita was able to elbow her in the windpipe, throwing her body to the side. The gun slid from the woman's grasp, and Nikita scrambled for it in the chaos.

Amelia used her good leg to swipe Nikita's feet out from under her, but Nikita landed in a graceful somersault a few feet away. The choice of diving for the knife or the gun weighed heavily in the air, and simultaneously the two women reached for their desired weapon.

Amelia fumbled with the gun. Nikita wrenched the knife from the floor.

The muzzle bore down on Nikita's forehead, the blade rested at Amelia's carotid artery, and the two glared into each other's eyes. Blood poured profusely from the bruised crater of Amelia's ruined nose, and streaks of red dripped gruesomely across Nikita's face from the wound she herself inflicted.

"You've got no friends, no family. Your name is mud. Just die," Amelia whispered, and pulled the trigger.

The chamber clicked empty.

And Nikita plunged her knife into the woman's throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just had to cut it here, because otherwise it would have been a bit awkward. I finally gave you some action though! Hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I'm sorry it took me awhile to post this update. Thank you to Beth_Penrose for reminding me once again that I have an AO3 account!
> 
> If you're confused because this chapter looks familiar, it's because it's already been posted on FFN! Thanks for reading, and I appreciate comments! <3
> 
> -MT


	5. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my 8tracks playlist for this story at https://8tracks.com/bottlewish/impact if you're interested!

_Scranton, Pennsylvania - 10:30 pm_

"So who was that guy?" Sam asked suddenly. It was the first time either of them had spoken since they left the diner, and he was getting sick of the thick silence. Quiet, pensive Alex was a lot less fun than the girl who'd been firing questions at him faster than a machine gun could spew bullets.

Alex squinted through the windshield into the darkness beyond, craning her neck to get a better view at a street sign. She replied with a tired grumble, "Who was what guy?"

"The bartender you were talking to," Sam said, as though it were obvious. Who else? That scrawny looking weenie who'd flinched the moment Sam made eye contact with him.

"Nobody," Alex said in a tone that clearly said  _leave it alone._

Sam was bored though, and attempting to peel back Alex's many layers was the most interesting option available at the moment. Besides, it was his turn to ask some questions. "Well  _nobody_  sounded like an ex-boyfriend."

Alex snorted, and flicked on the windshield wipers when a few fat raindrops hit the glass. "What makes you think I'm going to tell you anything about my love life?"

"You did with Owen," Sam reminded pointedly.

"You're not Owen."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What do you have to lose? We've still got another hour and half of silence to fill."

Alex turned to glare at him, and Sam could sense that her paranoia was starting to flare up again in the face of his curiosity. Sheesh, she could be hard to talk to. "Why do you want to know so badly?" she demanded.

"Because you're smart, you're beautiful, and you're deadly. You don't seem like the type to fall for a civilian. I can't figure it out," he said. Flattery combined with sarcasm seemed to be the key to getting her to open up so far.

"Owen dated a civilian and he was one of Percy's deadliest Guardians," Alex shot back, ignoring his compliments, "What made him fall in love with Emily?"

"Owen was an idiot," he said with more than a little disdain, "He thought he could be something more than what Division made him. Didn't want to play the villain anymore. When he found Emily passed out in the hallway, he took her to the hospital and it saved her life. When she woke up, she called him a hero."

Alex made a face at his tone of voice, and replied insistently, "He was a hero."

Some feeling he didn't want to examine started to twist in his stomach when he said, "That's what he thought, until he got her killed. Then he started to wish he'd just kept walking that day in the hall. Wished he'd never met her. Owen wasn't a hero, he was the grim reaper."

"Owen loved Emily," Alex replied softly, as if she were saying it more for her own sake. He wondered how many pointless deaths she could justify with  _love._  Sam killed for money, killed for revenge, but love was a waste of bullets.

"Yeah, and now I've got this stupid butterfly tattoo to prove it," he said, rubbing at the ink over his heart. He could remember the sting of the needle as Owen tried to draw the damn thing himself. It was the only one he hadn't taken to a professional.

Alex touched the back of her neck self-consciously before replying, "You're such a romantic, Sam."

Catching a glimpse of the wings on her skin, he quickly changed the subject, "You gonna tell me about the bartender or not?"

When they rolled to a stop at a red light, Alex gazed vacantly out at the rain for a long moment, and he wondered if she was going to reply at all.

Just when Sam was resigning himself to another hour of boring silence, the light turned green, and Alex finally replied.

"Owen and I were the same kind of stupid. Nathan was just a little bit luckier. There's not much else to say."

"Sucks," Sam said, and truly meant it.

* * *

_Westerly, Rhode Island - 2:30 am_

"Wow. Nice digs," Sam said, when they finally approached the safe house. He'd taken the steering wheel somewhere around the four hour mark, while Alex offered dependable directions.

And as the night grew older and traffic thinned out, Sam was much less cautious about laying low and obeying the speed limit. While Alex didn't appreciate her vehicle being taken for a joy ride, she had to admit they'd made good time.

"Get out of the way," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt, and she climbed over him to roll down the window and access the security panel by the garage door.

"Watch it," Sam mumbled as her hand landed precariously on his thigh, and she hastily adjusted her position. This was only marginally better; she could feel his breath fanning through her hair as she typed in the numbers, a distraction as she searched her memory. She was placing a certain amount of trust in him, that he wouldn't do something crazy like knock her unconscious against the steering wheel and murder Birkhoff and Sonya in their sleep.

She punched in the code (George Lucas' birthday if she remembered correctly) and the garage door opened, allowing her to thankfully retreat to the safety of the passenger seat.

They descended the ramp into the underground parking area, and she saw Sam take note of the steel reinforcement on the door as it closed behind them. The whole room was heavily fortified in case they ever needed to take a stand here; the back wall contained a weapons locker with an armament that would have made Percy wet his pants.

"Safe house my ass," Sam added, as Alex's heart thudded in her chest, "This place is built more like a fortress."

"C'mon," she said with an eye-roll, and got out of the car before he'd even pulled it to a full stop. He hurried after her as she headed up a utilitarian set of stairs, which led to the final door between them and Birkhoff's self-proclaimed Batcave.

Alex busied herself with a handprint and retina scanner, while a looming security camera followed Sam's pacing steps. He seemed oddly pensive for a guy who'd been more than happy to answer her previous tornado of invasive questions. She hoped the obvious fortification of the house was working to dispel any thoughts of betrayal that might have crossed Sam's mind.

"Is there someone on the other side of that, or is it on a motion sensor?" he asked, waving his arms in front of the camera.

"Both, I think," she replied distractedly as the retina scanner verified her identity.

The door slid open, and Seymour Birkhoff stood at the threshold with a cocked shotgun bearing toward her companion's head. Sam froze in surprise, his arms still half-poised in the air.

"Hey, wanna watch where you point that thing?" he asked, glancing at Alex as if looking for a little sympathy. She gave half a shrug; as far as she was concerned Sam deserved all he got.

"I dunno. You tried to use me as a body shield the last time we met, remember?" Birkhoff reminded him. "What's he doing here, Alex?"

"Sam  _claims_  to be a changed man," she said, and stepped beside Birkhoff to whisper quietly in his ear, "I call bullshit, but let's see how this plays out."

She pecked him on the cheek, and squeezed past him to enter the interior of the safe house, leaving Birkhoff to decide what to do with their new companion.

The first time she'd been here, it felt so similar to Division that it gave her chills. Stacked electronics still towered like obelisks, whirring loudly as they processed information with a speed and precision she couldn't begin to fathom, but she knew this was just a front. Beyond this concrete room was the sweet home of a couple of newlyweds.

"Hey, hey come on!" Sam's protests faded from hearing range as she stepped into Birkhoff and Sonya's kitchen.

The furnishings were decorated in tasteful shades of teak and olive, an immensely relieving difference from posh hotel rooms, and reinforced bunkers. The most comforting element of all was an old friend, sipping tea in a cozy-looking breakfast nook. The sweet smell of orange rind and cinnamon swirled through the air as she approached.

Sonya's eyes lit up when she realized she had a visitor. "Oh my God, Alex!"

She stood, and immediately threw her arms around Alex's neck. Alex buried her face in Sonya's shoulder, laughing and smiling into the soft fleece of the woman's robe.

"It's so good to see you," Alex said breathlessly while Sonya squeezed the air from her lungs.

They broke the embrace long enough to give each other a once-over, taking in all the differences from the last time they'd seen each other.

"Can I see it?" Alex whispered excitedly.

Sonya gave a bashful smile and replied, "Of course you can."

The wedding band on Sonya's outstretched hand was engraved with intricately designed leaves, twisted around a twinkling emerald stone. Simple, but elegant.

"There's an engraving in Elvish on the inside," Sonya added, "Seymour couldn't be dissuaded."

"It's beautiful," Alex determined, and then added a little guiltily, "I'm so sorry I missed the ceremony."

The newlywed laughed, and twirled the ring around her finger self-consciously. "There wasn't really a ceremony to miss. As far as the world's concerned, we're criminals, long dead and buried beneath Division. I don't think corpses can legally marry yet."

"Sonya, I-"

"There's no need to apologize. I'm happy, and amazingly, sincerely, blissfully in love. I don't need our marriage officiated to know that."

"You're damn right," Birkhoff said, brushing past Alex and sweeping Sonya off her feet. He spun her in a circle and planted a kiss on her lips, letting his eyelashes brush her cheek before lightly setting her on the floor. Alex was mesmerized by Sonya's answering blush, and the stars in Birkhoff's eyes. When was the last time she'd seen someone so in love?

"Gross," Sam said, leaning against the doorframe. The rude comment was enough to bring Alex back to earth, and she noticed that his hands were zip-tied together.

"Maybe you should've duct-taped his mouth too," she suggested, offering a glare in the direction of their guest.

"You guys seriously need to work on your hospitality," the mercenary grumbled, "And maybe keep the PDA to a minimum if you don't want your guests to vomit on the floor."

"Charming, as always," Sonya said, "I assume you're actually here for a reason, and not just to make snide commentary?"

Sam huffed, "Seriously, didn't anybody miss me?"

He went ignored.

"Amanda's reprogramming is showing some side effects. Sam claims to have memory problems and repeated migraines. I thought we could examine him; check for brain lesions, unusual hormone or thyroid levels, maybe nanobots. Anything that could tell us what's wrong," Alex said and began to rid herself of her earlier disguise. The cheap glasses and blonde wig hit the kitchen table, followed by the conservative button-down sweater. Sometimes going undercover was fun, but not if it meant wearing polyester fabrics and cheap earrings.

"What the hell are nanobots?" Sam asked, watching blatantly as Alex stripped down to a camisole and a pair of spandex shorts.

Birkhoff stepped in front of him to interrupt the view and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder of his T-shirt. "Trust me man, you don't want to know. Let's get you to the infirmary."

* * *

_Queens, New York - 2:30 am_

The sound of a passing freighter train woke Michael from his restless sleep. It was a shame. The dreams had been pleasant, for once.

He rolled back and forth in the dark for a few minutes, trying to get comfortable again, but the images leftover from his dream left an aching in his chest. Abandoning sleep, he flicked the beside lamp on, and winced as his eyes struggled to adjust.

Michael pulled a grey shoe box from beneath his bed, where it had been gathering dust for the last six or seven months.

Within it, he kept all the things that didn't belong in his new, civilian life. His Glock pistol and a spare magazine, a disposable cell phone, fake passports, and a little velvet-lined ring box. His palms were sweating as he reached for the last item, and he held it up to the light.

He used to obsess over this stupid box, and the ring that lay within it. Ever since he'd found it lying on the windowsill in that New Jersey safe house, it never really left his mind... just kind of faded to the background.

He gently opened the box, and the diamond inside caught the light, glittering innocently in his hands. He rolled the ring in his fingers, reading the letters he'd had engraved across the band.  _Forever_ , he thought, laughing bitterly.

_There's no forever in this business_ , Ari Tazarov had said before he died. And Michael hated the son of a bitch for being right.

He was never going to receive closure for this, was he? Not while Nikita was still out there. He'd dedicated years of his life to tracking down Kasim for what he'd done to his family, and it had completely blinded him to life around him.

Michael was a patriot, first and foremost, even if the government had stabbed him in the back countless times over the years. But with no identity and no mission to guide him, what kind of future could he possibly have? The only contingencies he'd planned for involved Nikita by his side, guiding him with her overwhelming righteousness and dutiful determination for the rest of his life, wherever it may take them.

"God damn it," Michael whispered, and reached for the gun.


	6. Intentions

_Westerly, Rhode Island - 3:00 am_

Despite Sam's fantasies, the full-body scan didn't involve any nudity or nurse outfits. He found himself reclining on a chair similar to what one might find in a dentist's office, wearing a very unflattering hospital gown, while Sonya took turns attaching a variety of machines to his person.

"What's this one do?" he asked as she clipped a small device to his finger. He made to pick at it with his opposite hand, but Sonya stopped him with a blood pressure cuff.

"It measures your blood oxygen levels and your resting heart rate. Take a few deep breaths for me," she replied, glancing at the small monitor.

She scribbled down the numbers from the finger clip, while the blood pressure cuff squeezed his other arm. There were few things Sam hated more than being prodded, and he couldn't hide his disdain when Sonya began flicking his forearm in search of a prominent vein.

"You don't  _really_  need to draw my blood, do you?" he grimaced. He could handle knife grazes and bullet wounds, but needles tended to remind him a little too much of their favorite psychopathic bitch.

"We'll need to take a few samples in order to discern whether or not there are nanobots in your system. Likewise, an iron deficiency can cause migraines. You should pray for the latter," she said, puncturing his arm with the needle remorselessly.

He winced, turning his head away while she filled the vials with his blood, and he glared at what was quite obviously a two-way mirror. He wasn't sure anyone was actually behind it, but he channeled all his spite in a general Alex and Birkhoff direction.

"So where's Michael and the conspiracy freak? I thought they'd be part of the welcoming committee," Sam asked. Typically the chip on Michael's shoulder would be big enough to warrant some threat of busting Sam's kneecaps in, but the guy was conspicuously absent.

Sonya replaced the needle with a swab of cotton, and said, "Keep pressure here or it will bruise."

He watched her attach medical labels to the four vials of blood she'd drawn, and it was silent for a moment before she replied, "They're not here."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Yeah, I got that much. But where are they?"

Sonya ignored his question, "Stay still; I'm about to attach the electrodes. I'll place one at center of your forehead, each of your temples, the base of your skull, and the center of your cervical, thoracic, and lumbar vertebrae."

He rolled his eyes, but didn't go so far as to verbally complain. He found it especially difficult to get underneath Sonya's skin, because Owen had barely known her. There wasn't much reward to the challenge either, not when Birkhoff wasn't around.

After a minute of her silently attaching the electrodes to his spine, she shared softly, "It's not my intention to be rude. In all honesty, I don't know of Ryan or Michael's whereabouts. Alex is our only mediator."

Sam made no move to reply, simply followed the pressure of her hands back to a reclining position. He blinked up at her as she pressed the sticky pads to his head, and she dutifully avoided eye-contact.

"She has a talent for tracking you all down when you don't wish to be found, and at keeping you hooked afterward. She's like Nikita in that way. Seymour and I could have easily found any of you using ShadowNet, but we lack the diplomacy that Alex possesses when it comes to initiating contact."

"Huh," Sam replied, waiting for her to continue.

"It may surprise you to hear that we were expecting you. The first intel we received regarding your coordinates came when a man fitting your description was sighted during a break-in at a pharmaceuticals laboratory in Belize a few months back. After that, we intercepted a blurry photograph taken from an airport security camera in Cuba."

What Sam first mistook as a nervous tic to fill the silence, he now realized was Sonya's more subdued version of an interrogation. He began to sweat.

She continued, "Last week,  _Samuel Elliot_  reserved a bus ticket from Texas to Louisiana. Whoever transported you across the border must have been very good, because it wasn't until you arrived in the United States that you continued leaving footprints as large as an elephant's. Your arrival in D.C. wasn't exactly professional either."

"Your point?" he asked impatiently. His eyes flicked back to the two-way mirror, suddenly feeling very watched.

Sonya smiled, her eyes finally meeting his, and he spotted the visor she held in her hands. He now understood the reason he'd been left all alone with this small, unassuming woman he knew nothing about.

"My point is that you have consistently targeted companies that formerly produced the regiment drug you were previously addicted to. That is part of the reason I took a sample of your blood. If your memory problems and headaches are as severe as you insinuated in your report, it is not unreasonable to assume you may have come in contact with a contaminated source."

Sam cleared his throat, and offered somewhat awkwardly, "Well, let's hope for the Vitamin D thing then."

Sonya gave a modest smile, and lowered the visor over his head.

* * *

When Alex woke up, she found herself drooling on a desk with a piece of paper stuck to her forehead. She discreetly wiped the evidence from her face, and glanced around the room for some indication of the time of day, only to recall that she was underground.

"At least you didn't fall asleep on my keyboard. Would've wrecked my whole code," Birkhoff said, gesturing toward his computer with the hand that wasn't holding a can of Red Bull.

Upon second glance, Alex realized that the piece of paper she'd stained with her saliva was a sticky note Birkhoff had written, stating  _ELITE FUGITIVE HACKER GENIUSES ONLY_ , that she'd peeled off his computer monitor.

"I was just snooping," Alex said innocently.

"That's an oxymoron," Birkhoff replied, "Besides, you're not going to find anything your tiny princess-sized brain can comprehend on here. This is Baby, a cognitive soup of both mine and Sonya's creation."

"Gross," Alex wrinkled her nose, "And rude."

Birkhoff ignored her. "You're looking for the ShadowNet access point, which is over there," he said, and pointed across the room to the obelisk-like towers she'd noticed on her way in earlier, and a blank plasma screen television.

"I didn't want to touch those without your permission," she said, as though it were obvious.

"But Baby was fair game," Birkhoff said sarcastically.

"I was expecting to find cheeky emails between you and Sonya that I could use as ammunition during your wedding toasts. Because your Vegas-style wedding definitely did not count," she laughed, but then switched gears. "How long was I asleep? Is Sonya finished testing Sam?"

Birkhoff sighed, and took a seat in the rolling office chair his wife usually used. "It's a little after four. And yeah, Sam's changing back into his big boy clothes while Sonya processes the results."

Alex leaned back in the chair and cracked her neck, rubbing out a sore spot that had formed during her impromptu nap. It didn't really help.

"Did you watch?" she asked. She was definitely curious about whatever Sam was hiding, but she'd had enough of his cockiness and tactlessness to last her a long while. She wasn't a big fan of the infirmary either. The smell of it reminded her of too many unpleasant things.

He shrugged. "Some of it. Mostly just to check if Sonya was safe or not. She's got the patience of a saint."

Alex nodded. "That's for sure. Find anything out?"

"He basically confirmed what we already thought about the drugs, but other than that he was pretty tight lipped," Birkhoff said.

"You could've let me know earlier that you were on his trail. It would have made the whole showing-up-out-of-nowhere thing a little less shocking," Alex grumbled.

"Yeah, well. We didn't realize he was heading for you. There's a drug company in Maryland we figured he might hit. He wasn't too keen on playing nice with others before, so you weren't really an obvious target," Birkhoff explained, affronted.

Alex nodded, pursing her lips at the idea of Sam going from one destination to the next, stockpiling pills his only goal.

"Why come here?" Alex asked, perplexed, "It doesn't make any sense. He came with me for the sole purpose of getting a physical examination, and he had to know we'd find the regiment in his blood. So what's the endgame?"

Birkhoff kicked his feet up on the table and stared thoughtfully at the metal rafters built into the ceiling. Alex could see the exhaustion and the frustration playing in his face.

"Empathy?" Birkhoff suggested, turning to look Alex in the eye, "No offense, but you've got your bleeding heart glued to your sleeve. If Sam wanted to play you, the junkie route is probably the easiest go-to."

Alex winced and shook her head. "I get your point. But why raid four separate drug labs?"

Birkhoff shrugged. "Maybe he's looking for something else, and the regiment is just a cover."

Alex hopped up and offered her hand to Birkhoff. "Come on, let's go spy on a cross-examination."

* * *

"Your test results were a little surprising," Sonya began, "I was correct in my assumption that you were taking a contaminated source of the regiment, but it's  _the method_  of contamination that's perplexing."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

"According to the sample I took of your blood, the drug is breaking itself down before it can be fully metabolized. Trace amounts are still making the rounds through your bloodstream, but the pill contains an inhibitor that keeps your brain from fully absorbing the chemicals. In other words, this version of the regiment has been modified to the point where its effects are no stronger than the energy boost of a double shot of espresso. So you are more or less ingesting a caffeine pill. The headaches are probably a result of what amounts to caffeine withdrawal."

"You're shitting me."

"I'm afraid not," Sonya said stoically, and began to store away the electronics now that she was finished with her examination, "On the bright side, your blood is free of nanobots."

"What the hell does that even mean!" Sam growled, his agitation leaking through.

Caffeine headache or not, that still didn't explain the source of his muddled feelings. The cool, calculated mindset he'd carried once he realized his true identity was beginning to blur. He found himself getting tied up in emotions, far more often than he would like.

"Microscopic robots that cling to your blood cells and make your brain explode, if activated," Alex said, entering the examination room, "More or less."

"What the hell?" Sam asked, and scratched at the back of his head in agitation, "None of what you're saying explains the other thing. The…The…"

"What, feelings?" Alex asked, looking bemused, "You're human. Those happen."

Sam let out a large sigh, and decided he was ready to get this over with. "Not to me, they don't."

Alex shrugged. "We'll see."

Sonya chimed in, "It's late, and none of us has gotten any rest. Alex, could you please show Sam to one of the guest bedrooms?"

"Sure, Sonya. And thank you for all your help," Alex said, giving her friend a quick hug, "I'll show Mister  _I-Don't-Do-Feelings_  the way."

* * *

"Why do you look so smug?" Sam griped. Alex lead him deeper into the underground safe house, which he was rapidly beginning to understand was much larger than he first imagined.

Alex glanced back at him from over her shoulder, that proud smirk still on her face. "No reason."

He grunted under his breath and crossed his arms over his chest. Honestly, he'd have preferred Birkhoff's irritating sarcasm over the women's psychoanalytics.

"The main reason I came to you is because you're not afraid to be brutally honest, Alex. It's not like you to be all 'mysterious' or whatever," Sam said sulkily.

Alex stopped abruptly, and he could see now that they were in a hallway that vaguely resembled the recruit's quarters at Division. The difference was that instead of concrete walls and tile floors, the area had a much homier feel. Still, a lot of bedrooms for an underground base. What, did they host a daycare down here?

"Don't pretend that you know me, Sam. And I won't pretend to know you," Alex said, and flicked the light switch on in the first bedroom.

"I'm a straightforward guy, Alex," he stated glibly, "What, you don't trust me?"

Alex rolled her eyes, "Just go to bed already. We'll figure out where to go from here after we've all had some sleep. Try not to do anything stupid before morning comes, okay? I'm tired."

Sam could see the shadows around her eyes, the slight messiness of her hair. If he had to guess, she'd been dozing on and off since they moment they got here. Once she conked out, finishing his assignment would be simple.

This was probably the last time he'd see her.

"Goodnight, Alex," he said, feeling a twinge of something he didn't want to think about, "And thanks."

She stared at him dubiously for a moment, obviously debating whether or not to leave him with another wise crack, but instead she offered a quiet, "Goodnight," before she turned away.

* * *

_Westerly, Rhode Island - 4:15 am_

Sam crept out of bed.

He stepped silently into the corridor, checking around the corner of the doorframe for anybody who might be crazy enough to stay up this late.

The hallways were lit with what looked like some sort of bioluminescent stone, maybe as a way to conserve power. He had to hand it to Birkhoff, the guy was a genius engineer. Whoever he contracted to build this bed-&-breakfast/underground bunker was a mystery.

Sam tiptoed back through the path he came in, tracing his and Alex's footsteps toward the stairs. He couldn't help but snort in derision as he passed the medical room, a headache instantly making itself known along his temples.

The remnants of Alex's alias were still scattered across the kitchen table, including the stupid wig that had tickled his cheek when she'd reached over him to enter the passcode to the garage. She probably had a James-bond style closet at home, full of costumes and accessories that she wore when she wasn't moonlighting as Alexandra Udinov, Russian princess back from the grave. Wherever home was. Doubtfully a tiny underground guest room.

The quiet whir of electronics up ahead lead him to his destination, the room where Birkhoff'd had a field day shackling Sam with a zip tie that cut tightly into his wrist. The bastard.

The sound originated from the many cooling fans that kept the computers from overheating. Percy's training for the Guardians had been intentionally sparse concerning computers, another way of preventing him from figuring out how to hack into the black box. Sam's knowledge was pretty limited to what he figured out from briefly owning a laptop he stole from a kid at a coffee shop, and YouTube videos created by power-hungry twelve year old kids (who were probably psychotic).

That's why Sam had the thumb drive his employer gave him. It contained some sort of decryption software that would break Shadow Walker's signature code pattern, allowing Sam to access what he came for.

He didn't know what most of the towers did, besides flash blinking lights and take up a lot of space. There was a list of instructions disguised as a tattoo on his arm, something no one would notice unless they were looking for it. Sam used it to guide him to the proper access terminal.

From there, he inserted the thumb drive, and waited for something to happen.

A black screen with green text popped up prompting:  **search key word: _**

Sam entered:  **the shop**

 


	7. Red

_Westerly, Rhode Island - 4:15 am_

Moments after Sam inserted the thumb drive, a black screen with green text popped up prompting:  **search key word: _**

He entered:  **the shop**

A few moments later, a jumble of code ran across the screen, followed by loading bar. He clenched and unclenched his fists impatiently, trying not to fidget too much. If Birkhoff came in here, Sam was going to have a hell of a time trying to explain this.

**Loading: 100%**

A second later, there was a list of search results, arranged in order of relevance. It ranged from maps, to surveillance footage, to character profiles. Most of the intel detailed Alex's efforts at dismantling human trafficking rings.

He found himself clicking on her profile.

**Name: Alexandra Katja Udinov**

That was interesting. He'd never known her middle name.

Her file was filled with newspaper headlines, blog excerpts, photos, and interviews, as well as the inside details of all of her undercover missions, age nineteen to present. This wasn't just her profile, this  _was_  Alex.

Under the videos section, he discovered Owen's interrogation. He didn't click on it. The day he met Alex was imprinted on his mind, and it liked to play on repeat during his dreams.

"What the hell is this?" Sam muttered under his breath. How the Shop managed to acquire all of this was beyond his imagination.

He exited out of Alex's personnel file, and found himself discovering a detailed selection of schematics.  _This_  is what he was meant to look for.

He didn't have the time to peruse all of the material, but from what he could tell, some sort of bio-organic weapon was being synthesized.

With the file decrypted, he quickly removed the USB and slid it underneath the cotton ball Sonya had taped to his arm to stop the bleeding earlier, and covered it with the sleeve of his shirt. Tiptoeing back on bare feet, he crept into the kitchen. He needed to return to his room so he could grab his shit and get out of there.

As soon as he passed the table, Alex shuffled into the room, flicking the light on and rubbing her eyelids.

Sam cleared his throat, glancing around the room for an excuse for his presence.

"Oh. I didn't realize you were up," Alex said, her voice rough, "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she had been crying, and her hands were slightly trembling. Playing it safe, he offered a shrug.

"Sorry," she continued, a bit awkwardly, "...nightmares, you know?"

He cleared his throat again, and offered, "Yeah, well. I get those too."

She paced to the sink and opened up a cabinet overhead, and pulled out a tea kettle.

"Tea?" she asked, without making eye contact, "I don't know what you were planning on doing, but if you're in here you might as well keep me company."

Silently, he slid into the booth at the breakfast nook, continuing to watch her as she hovered by the stove, running her fingers through her hair. She wasn't crying, but she didn't look quite put together either.

"It's not right," she said eventually, picking at threads from the loose hem of her T-shirt, "That they're dead. And I'm still here. It's just not...fair."

"Pierce?" he guessed.

Alex gave a watery chuckle, not at all like herself and said, "No, not this time."

Sam bit at a hangnail while Alex filled a couple of ComicCon printed mugs with hot water. He sat thoughtfully while she searched through the cabinets, presumably for tea bags.

"Who then?" he asked.

Alex sat down across from him and offered a steaming mug, setting a small dish of sugar cubes in the space between them. She grabbed three of them and stirred them into the browning liquid with a spoon, fluttering her eyelashes.

She tilted her head, hair falling in front of her face as a tear spilled from her eye.

"His last words were  _You're gonna see me_ ," she said, and scrubbed furiously at her cheek to wipe away any evidence of weakness. Then she let out another false laugh and explained, "I kissed him, and then I killed him."

Sam hunched over the table, leaning his elbows on the wood tiredly. "Everybody dies Alex. Sometimes our job is just to speed up the process."

Alex glared up at him and said spitefully, "Don't give me that crap, Sam! I know you don't believe it. I've seen all the ink on your skin."

He rolled his eyes and leaned back, his spine hitting the cushioned booth. "You want honesty, Alex? They're dead, we're alive, and there's nothing either of us can do change it. If you want to tattoo the lives of every person you've ever killed across your chest, do it, but it's not going to heal the pain. It's just going to throw the memory in your face every damn time you look in the mirror."

Surprisingly, Alex gave him a small smile, not at all like the self-deprecating laughs she'd offered before.

"I think that's the first honest thing you've said to me," she said softly.

He felt an uncomfortable twist in his gut at the expression of relief on her face, and he could feel the weight of Owen's self-hatred on his shoulders.

Maybe it was the fact that it was the middle of the night, and the house was so quiet it was almost comforting. Or maybe it was because he was so tired he wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere soft and pass out. But something about sitting across from Alex with a cup of tea made him want to say something else that would make her smile.

"You're gonna be fine," he finally offered, and added, "Now finish drinking your leaf water so we can go to sleep."

His comment had the desired effect, and she gave him a genuine laugh before knocking back the scalding drink in a few gulps.

"Thanks, Sam. You're kind of an ass, but you can be nice sometimes," she said, setting the mug back on the table.

Sam raised an eyebrow and replied, "Well, you're kind of nice, but you can be an ass sometimes."

Alex bit her lip to conceal another smile, in a charming sort of way. "I know. Go back to bed. You look half-dead."

He stood, giving Alex a final once-over. The tears seemed to have passed, and he felt an ounce of pride at his role in banishing them. He'd never had a way with words the way Michael did, which was probably one of the reasons why the two would always butt heads.

He almost walked away, but that last thought turned him back around.

"What happened to Michael and the CIA guy?" he asked, giving in to curiosity, "Sonya said you knew."

Alex glanced up from the dregs at the bottom of her mug, and leaned her chin on her hand lazily. She seemed to consider her answer before replying.

"Ryan met a woman who shares the same interests as him, and they're working undercover. Michael…is grieving. So its doubtful you'll see them anytime soon," she answered somewhat vaguely.

"Grieving? Did his cat die or something?" Sam asked. He wouldn't be surprised. He wasn't sure if he'd actually ever seen Michael smile. The guy had a martyr complex and was always brooding over something.

Alex snorted. "I think he's more of a dog person."

"So…?" Sam pressed.

"His fiancee left him," she finally said, looking at him appraisingly, "Did you think he'd just pick up and move on?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Why wouldn't he? I would have."

Alex's frown returned and she muttered, "Says the traitorous fugitive standing in our kitchen."

"Sharp words," Sam replied, already walking away, "We were having a moment a minute ago; don't ruin it!"

* * *

Alex let out a heavy sigh after Sam left the room. She could feel a headache forming and her sinuses were clogged from the tears.

She stood, bringing the mugs with her to dump them in the sink. She'd wash them in the morning, after she finished investigating whatever had Sam lurking around in the middle of the night.

On bare feet, she trod into Birkhoff and Sonya's electronic lair, and logged in to ShadowNet's primary server using her passcode. She'd never needed it in the past, but now it seemed prudent.

Birkhoff had been the one to suggest that maybe Sam held an ulterior motive for approaching her in D.C., but she was reluctant to immediately turn the man in. Snooping, she could understand. They were trained spies after all. Curiosity was bred into them.

But, the records showed obvious signs of intrusion—something had been uploaded, decrypted, and then wiped—which was a move obviously calculated beforehand.

Sam had used her. It was something she expected from the moment he cornered her in the hallway at the conference. She imagined he was probably gathering what meager belongings he'd brought with him at this moment, changing from the generously provided pajamas back into his street clothes. And then, once she returned to her room, he would slip out the door and disappear.

She could put a stop to it right now. Or she could let it play out, and follow him.

She wanted to meet the man behind the curtain. She had a feeling she already knew who it was.

* * *

As Sam crept out of the safe house, he pulled the transmitter from his pocket and inserted it into his ear. Activating it, a few moments later, a female voice picked up.

"Yes?"

"The job is done. I'll meet you at Safe House 13. I'm catching the first plane heading out."

"Great," Nikita replied, "I've got a cleaning job for you."

* * *

_New Orleans, Louisiana - 5:30 am_

When Sam arrived three hours later, the house (more like a mansion, if you asked him—a gold-digger's wet dream) was in complete darkness. Sam was sure that it would appear like a darkened crater on the Earth if anyone tried to inspect it via satellite.

So when Sam let himself in, treading over wilted rose petals, he was unsurprised to find Nikita operating almost completely via candlelight.

"Got started without me, huh?" he asked, eyeing Nikita's silhouette from the doorway, "Thought this was a pacifist mission."

If she was startled at all by his sudden presence, she made no indication. She replied without looking at him, "I need help."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Yeah, I can see that. You've got two dead bodies on the floor and enough blood to fill a swimming pool."

Nikita let out a sigh, and Sam could see her shoulders heave with the effort. In fact, from the way she was standing, he could tell she wasn't entirely steady on her feet.

"There's a bullet…in my shoulder. I can't get it out myself," she explained, and then muttered bitterly to herself, "Believe me, I've tried."

Sam approached, his own stride a little inconsistent. He'd managed an hour of uneasy sleep on the plane ride, but he felt the exhaustion deep in his bones. Nikita was leaning against the bar, where blood and wine-already half dried and sticky-intermingled beneath her boots. On the countertop he could see the array of objects she'd accrued for the attempted surgical procedure on her own body. A compact mirror, a roll of paper towels, a letter opener, and a bottle of vodka were lined up in a row.

"What a clusterfuck," Sam complained, "First you send me to spend quality time with some of my least favorite people, and then I come back and you want me to dispose of two drained out corpses and cut a hunk of metal from your body."

Nikita ignored him, grabbing another wad of paper towels to press against her wound. Her normally teak-colored skin seemed to be waning towards a sickened shade of gray. Or maybe that was the shadows playing tricks.

"Did you get the intel I asked for, Owen?" she asked, grating on his nerves. He didn't consider himself to be exceptionally perceptive when it came to women, but it seemed like Nikita enjoyed pissing him off. Like maybe she thought calling him Owen often enough would work as some sort of exposure therapy.

"Got the specs on some bioweapon you'll want to take a look at later. If you haven't joined the other two by then," Sam added, gesturing toward the bodies on the floor.

"Just get this damn thing out of me," Nikita replied, letting out a groan as she turned to face him.

"Yeah, sure. What's the magic word?" He asked, grabbing the ornately-designed letter opener and testing its sharpness against his fingertip. Pathetic. He glanced at the bottle of vodka and found blood crusted fingerprints staining the glass.

"Amanda," Nikita answered, letting out a stifled pained whine as she shifted. "We have about two hours before the maids come and I think this sort of mess is above their pay grade. If you want to get to Amanda, you're going to need me."

Too tired to reply, Sam wandered off to find better supplies.

He returned ten minutes later with a pair of tweezers from the bathroom, a lighter from the fireplace, a penlight from a nightstand, four bottles of bleach from the laundry room, a metal garbage pail, and a few 100% cotton bath towels.

He found Nikita seated on the floor, a foot away from the edge of the dried puddle of blood. She was propped up against the bar, her legs stretched out in front of her, looking deathly pale and not entirely conscious. The paper towels she'd been pressing against the wound were fully saturated in her fist, no longer clenched in an effort to stem the blood flow.

"Nikita," he said loudly, diving to the floor to check her pulse, dropping the items he'd accrued in the doorway. Her skin was clammy to the touch and her eyelids barely flickered in response to his actions.

"C'mon Nikita," he growled, suddenly much more awake, "You said it yourself, we can't get to Amanda without you! Now wake the hell up and get to work, because you're not dying tonight!"

Nikita groaned quietly, her eyes barely opening. Her cold hand drifted upward from her lap and settled on his fist that was clenched around the torn remainder of her dress collar. She smiled faintly and whispered, "Owen."

Sam gritted his teeth, but chose not to argue with her this time. He walked around the bar to fill a wineglass with water from the tap, and ducked down to press it into her hand.

"Stay awake, drink this, and try not to die on me," he ordered her, "Because I'm definitely not cleaning up three bodies tonight."

* * *

Nikita let out a barely contained sob as Sam poured vodka over the wound. He'd torn the dress open completely for better access to the bullet wound, and it was lying in shreds around her waist. Her breastbone was glistening purple in the blueish glow of the penlight, alcohol and blood dripping over her ribs, and Sam tried not to panic. She was awake, and she was alive. That was what mattered.

"Tell me about the mission," Nikita requested hoarsely, leaning her head back against the bar as Sam sanitized the tweezers beneath another flow of Grey Goose vodka. He doubted he'd ever drink the stuff again as the stench filled his nostrils.

"Birkhoff is a pain in the ass, Sonya is deceptively sadistic, and Alex asks so many questions you would think she's a standardized test," Sam said, answering what he knew was her real question, and passed her the penlight, "Hold this."

Her hands shook as she tried to focus the light, but thankfully not so much he couldn't see. She took a deep breath as he prepared to insert the tweezers into her skin.

"Details," she ordered desperately, "distract me."

Sam clenched his jaw and pinned her body against the bar with one hand while he dug the tweezers into the wound with the other. He could feel her jagged breathing as her chest expanded and contracted beneath his hand.

"What is this, Gossip Girl? Birkhoff and Sonya got married and you've seen Alex on the news. Not much else to say. They did tell me that these vials of regiment you've been giving me are contaminated, but we'll fight about that once you're able to throw a punch again," Sam explained, finally gaining purchase on the warped piece of metal. Then, with a triumphant grunt, extracted it with another sticky trickle of blood.

"Gold star," Nikita whispered, glaring at the bullet as Sam tossed it into the metal garbage pail, "What about Michael?"

Sam picked up the letter opener again and held the handle of it over the lighter, watching the flame flicker hungrily as it absorbed the remnants of blood and vodka. Then, upon catching Nikita's nod, he pressed the heated metal to the wound until it sizzled and cauterized the wound shut.

Nikita's raw wail twisted unpleasantly in his gut, and he let her dig her fingernails into his forearm as she rode out the wave of pain. When it was done, she rested her head against his shoulder, panting heavily.

Sam sat there awkwardly for a moment, uncertain of how to answer her question. He'd already been vague regarding Alex's guilty conscience, feeling strangely unwilling to betray her confidence in him. He thought back to her description of Michael's status. Grieving.

"Michael was fine," Sam finally replied, feeling self-conscious with Nikita's forehead resting against his collarbone, "An asshole as usual. He threatened to bust my kneecaps if I did anything stupid."

Nikita lifted her head to make eye-contact with him, and he wondered if she could tell he was lying. But all she did was look around at the mess of gore that saturated the living room and replied, "We need to clean this up. Time's running out."

* * *

The sky was just beginning to brighten as Sam and Nikita sped off in the nondescript vehicle she'd left hiding just beyond the trees. She was spread out across the expanse of the backseat, unmoving as Sam muttered curses beneath his breath. The walls of the mansion were just beginning to cave as the hungry flames ate at the support beams, the all-consuming blaze blending with the fiery oranges and reds of the rising sun in the distance.

The sight was both grotesque and beautiful, and the usually unshakable Sam found himself hoping he'd never see something so frightening again.


	8. Flare

_ Westwego, Louisiana - 1:00 pm _

When Nikita finally stirred, she opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Splintered wooden rafters hovered high above her head, and shattered sky lights illuminated the room, providing an unimpressive view of gray clouds. The air in the vast, near empty room smelled of mold and an approaching rainstorm.

She tried to lift an arm to rub at her eyes, lashes crusty with dried tears, but something held her in place. Panic rose in her chest as she tugged at the makeshift restraints.

“Chill,” Sam said, his groggy voice immediately quelling the adrenaline in her blood.

He set aside his phone which still glowed with a news article describing an unfortunate house fire that had taken the lives of a local millionaire and his unidentified female partner. Sam had a catheter taped in place on his forearm, which he kept upright. A thick red band was tightly tied around his bicep.

“Why am I strapped down?” Nikita asked hoarsely, her throat feeling like gravel from the screaming she had done the night before.

Sam gestured to a large blooming bruise on his cheekbone. “The first time I tried to insert the IV, you elbowed me in the face.”

Nikita suddenly noticed that the medical tubing coming from Sam’s arm was connected directly into hers. “Jesus Christ, Sam! Do you know how dangerous a direct blood transfusion is?”

“Yeah, I’m not an idiot,” Sam shot back, “I learned how to do this in the army. I have an O blood type and I haven’t taken any of the regiment in over 48 hours. Feel free to thank me at any time.”

Nikita just closed her eyes and let out an exhausted sigh. “I’ll thank you after you untie me.”

Sam rolled his eyes and nimbly unfastened the restraints, letting out an offended grunt as Nikita immediately yanked the catheter from her arm. A few droplets of precious blood splashed against the dirty floor before Sam could disconnect himself from the makeshift device.

Nikita’s shoulder burned like fire as she pulled herself up and tore what little was left of her dress to wrap it around the small wound. She found herself taking deep breaths as she tried to recover some form of equilibrium.

“Thanks,” she said so softly she wasn’t sure he would be able to hear it.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Sam said back stiffly, obviously not anticipating any form of actual kindness from her.

Nikita ached with the way she had been treating him recently. She found herself lashing out at him more than he deserved, only because a selfish part of her resented who Owen had turned into. Or really, resented who Owen had always truly been.

“Where are we?” she asked. They were clearly in an abandoned warehouse somewhere, but she hoped Sam had gotten them safely away from the Boucher mansion before any members of The Shop could attribute the damage to arson and potentially track them.

“Westwego. I woulda gone further, but you were losing too much blood. How long until you’re ready to move out?”

Nikita didn’t have to see her reflection to know she was a mess. Her flesh was sticky with dry blood, flaking from her skin like old corn syrup. Her clothing was in tatters and her bullet wound was being held together by burnt flesh and a strip of cloth.

She let out an exhausted sigh, one that she wouldn’t normally let Sam be witness to. But she found matching fatigue in his own expression. Finally, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“M.D.K Laboratories,” Sam replied, “About an hour drive.”

“Make it two hours,” Nikita said, forcing herself to stand, “We need to go shopping first.

* * *

_ Westerly, Rhode Island - 2:00 pm _

When Seymour got up the next morning, he found Alex sleeping at the same spot in front of his laptop as the night before. He had replaced the previously drooled-on sticky note with a new one that stated in no uncertain terms  _ NO TOUCHING! _ But much to his chagrin, this fresh sticky note was now also soaking up saliva.

“Earth to Alex!” he said, volume just loud enough to wake her with a headache.

A small groan escaped the Russian princess as she leaned back, rubbing out a newly formed kink in her neck. “What the hell, Birkhoff?” she replied, her voice sounding like sandpaper.

When he saw the puffiness of her eyelids, a small amount of guilt invaded his conscience. He knew from past experience that Alex had wicked nightmares. She woke up screaming more than once, but usually wandered into the kitchen to have a cup of Sonya’s tea to soothe her nerves. Occasionally, if Seymour was staying up late working on a new bit of code, they would exchange a few words of friendly banter before she returned to bed. Whether or not she eventually found rest, he didn’t know.

Finding her snoozing less than gracefully in front of his laptop was a new pattern.

“You’re drooling on my ‘keep out’ sign,” he pointed out, figuring it would be better to lecture her than prod at sensitive territory. Mushy stuff wasn’t his style.

Alex reluctantly moved her gaze toward the saliva-moistened paper and let out another groan and explained, “Sam hacked the access terminal to ShadowNet. I just wanted to check if he messed with  _ Baby _ , but as far as I can tell it’s untouched.”

“Let me guess,” Seymour ventured and sat in Sonya’s usual chair, “He’s not here.”

Alex shook her head and replied, “No. I heard him leave last night. He knew about the backup exit and entered the code on his own.”

Seymour pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead and grunted. “So he’s not working alone. It’s too early for this bullshit.”

“It’s almost 2:00 PM. And you’re right, he’s not,” Alex confirmed, “But I think I know who he’s working for.”

He rolled his eyes. “Amanda?” he hazarded.

“No,” Alex said, her voice coming out barely more than a breath, “Nikita.”

“No shit.” Seymour’s eyes widened. It was  _ definitely _ too early for this shit. “How do you know?”

Alex shook her head again, “It’s just a feeling. There’s  _ no way _ Sam would willingly work for Amanda. And Amanda would definitely not give him a placebo version of the regiment. She would push him until he dropped dead if it would get her ahead.”

He needed a Red Bull,  _ badly _ . “That doesn’t mean he’s working with Nikita. She left because she didn’t want her friends to get hurt. As flawed as that logic was, I don’t think she’s a hypocrite.”

“I talked to him for awhile, and at times he could be...kind,” Alex admitted reluctantly, “And he seemed legitimately confused. Regardless of whether or not he was using that as a way to get his foot in the door, he’s changed. I think that maybe...Nikita is saving Sam in the only way she knows how.”

“By being Nikita,” Seymour determined, “Great. So she won’t talk to us, but she’ll steal our WiFi every now and then.”

Alex offered a small smile at his joke, and whispered, “She’s alive.”

Seymour tossed the idea around in his mind, the reality of the situation sinking in. Nikita was alive. The realization gave him deja vu, a throwback to the time when Percy announced that the manhunt to eliminate Division’s greatest threat was revived. The combined feeling of relief and dread. If intuitive Alex could come to this conclusion, so could Amanda, the queen of psychological warfare.

“So I guess the question is, what do we do now?” he finally asked.

They had to act. That was not in question. They had waited for thirteen months for this.

Alex, despite her tired eyes and gravelly voice, offered a winning grin. “We tell Michael.”

* * *

_ Somerset, New Jersey - 4:00 pm _

“I need you to repeat those words exactly. Do you think you got all that?” Alex asked, speakerphone on as she peeled back the throw rug in her living room to access her loose floorboards. She had returned to her own home two days ago and slept off the side effects of her all-nighter so she could be well rested for whatever came next.

“Got it,” her assistant confirmed and repeated the phrase back to her. He was in New York visiting family, much closer to Michael than she was. He asked, “Anything else?”

She dug her fingernails into the gap between two planks and lifted, revealing the small safe she kept hidden there. She quickly entered the code and it beeped before giving her access.

“Nope, that’s it. Thanks Greg,” she said, and promptly hung up.

Alex pulled the Walther P22, three spare magazines, and her four fake driver’s licenses and matching passports from within, stuffing them in her satchel. She had already retrieved her stash of foreign currencies from her safety deposit box at the bank, including euros, rubles, yen, renminbi, and rupees. She considered briefly that she may actually be over prepared for a mission for which she had the barest minimum intel at her disposal. But Nikita had always taught her to expect the unexpected.

Her laptop was open to her twitter page in which she had announced that she was going on vacation in Brazil for the next two weeks. She hoped her lack of specifics would keep the paparazzi sidetracked and frustrated.

She ejected the magazine from her weapon, checking that it was full before reinserting it with a satisfying click.

“Here we go,” she said, and turned to gaze out the window.

* * *

_ Queens, New York - 7:00 pm _

Michael returned home later that evening than usual, having stopped for a jog at the park after work. Working in construction kept him physically fit in the most basic of senses, but he knew he had lost weight and stamina over the past several months and it would take time to get back in shape. He wasn’t exactly sure what about his romantic encounter with Denise had changed him, but something inside him was whispering  _ get ready. _

He arrived at his apartment door at the same time she did, and they stopped a moment to look at each other. He had his orange construction vest tied around his waist, his undershirt sticking to his skin with sweat from his jog. Denise looked him over in an interested but resigned sort of fashion, and he could feel the back of his neck heating up.

“I don’t suppose there’s any use inviting you in for dinner, is there?” she asked, laughing shyly.

He could appreciate her attempts at normality, but rather than playing along, he shook his head, “Can’t.”

Denise nodded like she expected nothing less. She licked her lips and said almost wistfully, "Maybe next time."

"Right. Maybe," he responded awkwardly, pushing the door open the rest of the way with his shoulder, stepping into his apartment to hide away for the rest of the evening.

"Um, but I was actually told to deliver a message!" she interrupted as he began to shut the door.

Michael glanced back at her, suddenly on edge. The only caller he'd ever had was Alex, and he'd already heard from her.

"Yeah?" he prompted, trying to appear casual.

"One of your friends stopped by. He wanted to know if you wanted go hunting sometime soon," she relayed with a shrug, “I’m sorry but I forgot to ask his name.”

A jolt of electricity fizzled down Michael's spine, and he dropped his groceries on the floor, a can of beer bursting open and spewing foam on the carpet. He shoved the door aside and strode with purpose up to Denise, unconsciously tapping into his old intimidation techniques.

"What specifically did he say, Denise? What were his exact words?" he pressured her, hovering intently in her personal space.

Her eyes widened, and she suddenly looked very confused. "I, um... He said something like... He went up to the mountains last weekend and spotted a big deer, I think? But it got away. He wanted to know if you wanted to try and track it with him. Said he was staying at Stuyvesant."

Michael let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, all the color draining from his face. He backed away, almost tripping over his overturned bags.

"So are you going to go?" she asked, completely oblivious to his turmoil.

Michael blinked as if to clear smoke from his eyes, suddenly filled with renewed life and purpose.

"It’d be great to get back in touch," he said with a charming smile, slipping easily back into the confident personality that had worked so well for him back at Division. It felt like putting on an old, familiar suit after wearing nothing but stained pajamas for a year and a half. “I should really start packing.”

Denise looked disappointed for a moment, “Oh. I see. Well, be safe.”

Michael almost turned to go back into his apartment, but was suddenly hit with a rush of gratitude. He pulled Denise into a firm, but gentle hug, forgetting for a moment that he was sticky with drying sweat from his jog.

“Thank you, Denise,” he said softly before pulling away, “You’ve always been kind to me.”

Her face flushed red and she ducked her head. “It’s—uh, it’s no problem at all.”

He smiled, his pulse thrumming in his ears, and returned to his apartment to prepare. Nikita was out there, and he wasn’t going to let her slip away again.

* * *

_ Westerly, Rhode Island - 8:00 am _

Seymour was typing out the last few lines of code when the stairs creaked behind him. He'd had a conniption once when Sonya interrupted his concentration, and from then on she always padded straight past him and into the kitchen.

With a few more rhythmic taps of his fingertips, the program was practically complete. He still had to test it for glitches, which could take anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks, but he was confident things would run smoothly. He wasn't known for making careless mistakes.

He kicked his feet up on the desk and stretched his arms over his head, letting out an exaggerated groan as his joints cracked. He could hear the kettle hissing in the kitchen as Sonya prepared her cup of morning tea, and soon the aroma of ginger filled the air.

He pulled a face. That was odd; Sonya usually had a mug of green tea with a slice of lime when she woke up, refusing to deviate even when (in Seymour's opinion) she'd feel much more ready to face the day if she chugged a can of Red Bull. The box of ginger tea bags generally remained in the back recesses of the cabinet, reserved for instances of motion sickness after plane rides.

Seymour rose from his seat and shuffled in his slippers to the kitchen, where Sonya was slouching heavily against the counter as the tea finished brewing. The shadows beneath her eyes were dark and heavy, the pallor of her skin a dreary grey to match.

"You don't look like someone who spent the previous night have the most bangin' sex of her life," Seymour greeted, and came over behind her to massage her shoulders.

Sonya rolled her eyes, but smiled tiredly at him nonetheless. "I think perhaps the body chocolate didn't settle as well as it should have," she offered by way of explanation, and leaned her head into the crook where his neck met his shoulder.

She smelled of dried sweat and a hint of clove, a not altogether unpleasant reminder that she had skipped her usual bath. The time on the oven read 6:30 AM—she would normally be relaxing in their giant tub right about now, singing quietly along with the radio. For the past three days however, her schedule had been completely out of whack.

"Hey, why don't you go back to bed? I'll make some toast and bring it upstairs," he offered uneasily. While they didn't  _ frequently _ combine dessert and love-making, they had been known to indulge on occasion, and Sonya had never before shown up the next morning looking like she'd been trampled by an army of Stormtroopers.

This lead Seymour to believe that there was a larger situation at hand. Either Sonya was coming down with a peculiar case of the stomach bug which only struck in the mornings, or...

"That's sweet of you, Seymour, but I'm perfectly fine. I just need a cuppa and then we can test the ShadowNet update for bugs," she said with forced enthusiasm, and pulled away to grab her mug.

Seymour puffed his cheeks in frustration and took a deep breath, lifting his hand after her as she walked away from him.

"Wait, Sonya!" he said, and she turned around, casting him an inquisitive look.

"Is there something going on?" he prompted, "Something you're not telling me?"

She opened her mouth to deny it, but it was plain on his face that he already knew. She seemed to begin to reply several times, but continued to interrupt herself before she could even get the first word out. But Seymour waited patiently, familiar with Sonya’s habit of babbling when nervous.

"Seymour..." she finally said, and dropped a hand to her stomach. Her eyes began to water, "I think I might be pregnant—well, I mean, I took a test. Three of them actually, because they're not one-hundred percent accurate, but they were all positive! And I know that we're fugitives from the state and the timing is terrible but-"

An alarm coming from Seymour's computer interrupted her tirade, and she clamped her jaw shut. Seymour’s eyes were blown wide as he glanced between Sonya’s trembling form and ShadowNet’s persistent beeping, programmed to trigger only if an anomaly occurred at the site of one of The Shop’s known set-ups. It couldn’t be a coincidence, so soon after the revelation that Nikita was back on the scene.

“Sonya…” he started, but she interrupted him by clearing her throat.

“We can talk about it later,” she said, turning her back on him so she could view ShadowNet’s results, “There are more important things to discuss right now.”

“More important things?” Seymour sputtered in disbelief, but Sonya gave him an expression that firmly dictated that she had no intention of speaking more on the subject at the moment. He sighed and followed her to glimpse the results.

“Louisiana,” Sonya said.

“Louisiana,” Seymour affirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry that it took me 11 months to update this story.  
> Secondly, I'm sorry that I can't promise it won't happen again.
> 
> Hopefully it's not too confusing, but this chapters takes place over the course of three days I think? (Even I'm confused.)
> 
> For anyone who might still be reading, I hope you enjoyed this brief chapter!


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